Redeemed From Time
by Gramarye
Summary: When Will makes a startling discovery in the course of researching a book on Buckinghamshire history, he begins to dig deeper into the past -- and begins to realise that history can affect him, and his future as well. Co-authored with Sweeney Agonistes.
1. Part One

Authors' Notes:  
Gramarye: "We started this because we were in need of something to do over the   
Christmas holidays."  
Sweeney Agonistes: "We were very, very bored. So bored it hurt. And so we got   
to talking, and...you know how it goes. It evolved into a scary sort of system -- I'd   
write during the day, and she'd write at night, and it was like clockwork. Frightening."  
G: "Very frightening. Because there were some times where an idea or a phrase   
would simply...I don't know, I suppose 'resonate' isn't too strong a word to describe  
it. In any case, we set ourselves to produce about a typed page a day, and after a few   
conversations to work out the mechanics of the plot, things really started to come   
together in a way that produced no small amount of glee on both sides.  
S: "Like the yeti thing."  
G: "And the elderly Parrothead."  
S: "Sort of like Faramir -- he walked out of the mangrove forests of the Gulf, fully   
formed and singing along to 'Changes In Latitudes, Changes In Attitudes.' But. Er.   
Yes. It was a fabulous way to make the time pass before school started back up,   
and I'm beyond pleased with the results. Although I still haven't made the yeti-and-  
Merriman-shaped cookies."  
G: "Because really, the mental image of Merriman versus the Abominable Snowman   
is simply too priceless to ignore. And I for one could not have had a better partner in   
crime for this endeavour."  
S: "And god knows Will and Merry think what we've done to them is a crime.   
Red hots for cookie!Merriman's eyes, man. That's all I'm saying."  
G: "Essentially, this story began as an exercise for us, a writing challenge to while  
away a few long winter days. And with that, I think it's time to enjoy a cookie or two."  
S: "Forsooth. And some milk, and a toast to my fellow offender, who makes   
everything twelve times tricksier and hence better.  
G: "Cheers!  
S: "Hee. We rule."

Standard disclaimers apply. Will Stanton, Merriman Lyon, and The Dark Is Rising   
Sequence are copyright of Susan Cooper.

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Redeemed From Time  
By: Gramarye and Sweeney Agonistes

Part One

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_Times have changed for sailors these days._

-Jimmy Buffett

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"Professor Stanton? Is everything all right?"

"What?" Will looked up from the diary on the reading table to meet the gaze of the   
undergraduate standing above him. "Mr Carpenter. Yes. Everything's fine." Very   
casually he covered the diary's pages with a few stray papers. "How's your research  
coming along, then?"

"Pretty well, I think," said Carpenter. "You looked awfully shocked, Professor...and   
you're sort of pale...are you sure you're all right?"

"Perfectly fine," said Will. "Good day, Mr Carpenter, and good luck with your research."   
He gave Carpenter the Eye until the young man took the hint and bid him farewell.

As soon as Carpenter had vanished behind a few shelves, Will cleared the papers from   
the diary and went back to its pages, rereading the spindly handwriting incredulously.

It was still there. It hadn't vanished. 

_25 December 1875_

_Snow has stopped for the present. Julia's fever broken at last, thank the heavens,   
and she was well enough to come down with the other children for her Christmas   
gifts. Nanny looked after her while Marchmont and I attended church with young   
Edgar and Peter. Sermon rather uninspired -- surely Dr Wynne could have had   
something original, or at least inspirational, to say on this day of our Lord's   
nativity?_

_A most delightful party at Greythorne Mnr. yesterday evening -- Miss Greythorne   
a gracious and charming hostess as always. Excellent cold duck at the supper.   
A startling entrance by an elderly gentleman by the name of Lyon -- actually   
entered the house with the carol-singers, of all things! Lady Cynthia, who was   
there with Sir James and Miss Worthington, was quite shocked by the display.   
Miss Greythorne, to the contrary, seemed quite delighted at Mr Lyon's unorthodox   
entrance, and spent much of the evening in intimate conversation with the gentleman.   
Lord Huntingdon did mention at supper that Mrs Ingleby had told him that Mr Lyon   
and Miss Greythorne's late father had met during the latter's Grand Tour, though he  
regretted that he could not recall the exact circumstances under which the two men   
had met. With an entrance such as Mr Lyon's, one can only surmise that they must   
have been exceptional circumstances indeed._

_Lord Huntingdon also mentioned his surprise that Mr Lyon had brought his young   
great-nephew to the party -- though dear Lady Huntingdon later told me that she   
had heard tell of how Mr Lyon dotes on the boy, the orphaned child of his younger   
sister's son. I never saw the boy myself -- Miss Greythorne must have had him sent   
up to the nursery for the duration of the party. A most sensible thing to do, in my   
opinion. My children have all been taught that their place is to be seen and not   
heard. I suppose one must make some small allowance in the case of orphans. But  
a delightful soiree, all around. A pity we had to leave so soon -- Miss Greythorne's   
parties never fail to entertain one._

_Julia fretful again. Must see if Nanny has been giving her the doctor's medicines  
exactly as he prescribed them -- her hearing is not what it once was._

And there it was. A single entry in the sixth volume of the diary of Helen Kingsford   
Marchmont, wife of the Honourable Edgar Marchmont, Liberal Member of Parliament   
for Slough. A single entry, sandwiched in between drafts of bread-and-butter letters to   
titled acquaintances and a desperately dull account of the events that had led up to   
dismissal of the second footman shortly before Twelfth Night. 

He wasn't sure what shocked him more -- finding Merriman in his survey of Victorian   
Buckinghamshire, or finding himself there. What was it that Hawkin had told him -- _An   
Old One hardly ever lets his name be recorded anywhere._

Will leaned back in his chair, the initial shock over with, and smiled in remembrance.   
Hawkin had said something else, too: _If anyone had written a history recording this   
party here tonight, you and my lord Merriman would be in it, described._ He did not   
think that Merriman would be half as amused as Will himself was to find that he had   
been set down for the ages by such a vapid, supercilious woman as Helen Marchmont.   
Making allowances for orphans, forsooth.

His eyes caught a few phrases -- _met during the latter's Grand Tour -- he could not   
recall the exact circumstances under which the two men had met_ -- they must have   
been exceptional circumstances indeed. That gave him pause. He read them again.   
Of course that wasn't the case -- it couldn't have been, unless Miss Greythorne had   
come into her own as an Old One a few years before that -- but Merriman had told   
him that there had been a space of five hundred years between Will's birth and the   
birth of the second to last of their kind. Will supposed it was merely a story to stop   
questions. 

That brought his thoughts around to dinner last night. He had taken it in College, and   
one of his colleagues had grinned at him and asked him if it wasn't something in his   
diet that kept him so well-preserved.

"Well-preserved?" Will had said mildly, spearing a bit of carrot.

"You've been at Oxford for how many years, Will? Thirty? Forty? And yet you don't   
look a day beyond thirty-five. Thirty-eight, maybe. How do you do it?"

He had frozen slightly at that, then waved his becarroted fork in the direction of his  
colleague. "Clean living," he had said merely, tipping the other man a wink.

But if James Leonard had noticed -- brilliant linguist, but perhaps not the most   
observant man around -- then others had noticed, and he couldn't have that.

How many times must Merriman have had to rebuild various identities over the   
years? Not very often at the beginning, Will thought. People accepted magic then.   
But after...it would be necessary to go underground maybe once every fifty or   
sixty years, and then resurface somewhere else. Now it was Will's turn, and he   
had no idea where to begin.

Will looked back down at the diary. There was a start, maybe. And then in a   
lovely burst, the thought came to him that over quite literally thousands of years,   
this could not be the only place that Merriman showed up in history.

It was simple, really. No matter how careful Merriman had been, there would   
be records. There would be references. There would be some small indication   
of where, when, and how an immortal could potentially exist as an individual   
for so long without arousing suspicion.

And to Will Stanton, Watchman of the Light, there was absolutely no question   
that those scraps of information would have great bearing on his actions and   
decisions in the coming days...months...years...centuries....

He sighed, quietly. This would require much thought. And whilst the reading   
rooms at the Bodleian might have been conducive to other kinds of thought, this   
kind of thought was the kind that deserved a pot of strong tea, a comfortable   
chair, and a roaring fire.

He closed the diary, cautiously returning it and the accompanying papers to the   
specially made storage box, one of many that the library used for housing its   
fragile collections. He made a mental note of the box's number and returned it   
to the Collections desk, giving the student assistant on duty a benign smile and   
a quiet 'Thank you' when she returned his University card. On his way out of   
the reading room he passed Carpenter, acknowledging the young man's 'Have   
a good evening, Professor' with a genial, if understandably absent-minded, nod.

* * *

The tea, chair, and fire were easy enough to obtain; peace of mind, however,   
was not. He had not had the time to straighten his flat for a month or so. The   
detritus of the academic life had thus not been beaten back into submission for   
several weeks, and the scattered books, folders, and papers were slowly   
taking over.

"I can't think like this," he muttered to himself, surveying the wreckage, and   
spent a further half hour getting things back into some recognizable pattern   
of decency. When he ensconced himself back in his chair and poured a cup   
of tea, the tea was cold, and with a sigh, he got up to replace it.

Finally, after much travail, he settled back in his chair, adequately heated pot   
of tea close to his hand, and began to ponder.

The most obvious thing in the world, Will thought, would be to study Merriman's   
own academic career. It had occurred to him some time ago to do some looking in   
that direction simply to satisfy his own curiosity about the renowned Professor   
Lyon, but then he had been waylaid by a trip to the Vatican and the subsequent   
papers, and the thought had left his mind. Now, though -- now there was the time   
as well as the necessity.

"Start backwards, then," said Will to the fire. "Start at the end to find the beginning."  
St. John's College might have some record of the story Merriman had left behind   
him explaining his passage out of Time. That might also be of some use.

But first, there was the Scrapbook.

He had put it together quite some time ago, though he had not looked at it in years.   
It had been a quiet project -- a morbid project, one might say -- and for a time, it   
had been an ongoing one. But those days had ended a year and a half ago, when he   
had picked up his scissors and clipped an article from the obituary section of the _  
Times_. Dr Simon Drew, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. Renowned   
paediatric surgeon. Survived by wife, children, grandchildren. Predeceased by   
sister Jane, brother Barnabas.

Will had clippings for them. And for many others as well.The only clipping he   
did not have was one for Bran Davies. And that was because he had never looked   
for it.

He flipped to the front of the book, then turned the page, past the small fading article   
that announced the tragic and sudden death of Mrs John Rowlands in Clwyd, Wales.   
On the second pages was another article from the _Times_. Professor Merriman Lyon,   
MA, PhD (Oxon.). Professor of Archaeology, University of Oxford. Missing, presumed   
dead. The last report of his whereabouts had come from Nepal, where he had been on   
a privately-funded expedition to gather material on the archaeology of the Himalayas.   
Tragic loss to the academic community. Long list of accomplishments, writings,   
publications, honorary degrees from other institutes of post-secondary education,   
etcetera.

Reading over the page, Will was very glad that he had included another article on   
the facing page, one he had unearthed in the archives of a now-defunct student   
publication at the University. That article had reproduced the _Times_ article verbatim   
and then added sardonic commentary after each sentence, ending with the assertion   
that the old bastard had finally met his match in the Abominable Snowman -- climactic  
final battle, shades of Holmes and Moriarty at the edge of Reichenbach Falls -- and   
expressing sympathy for the creature at the indigestion it had surely suffered afterwards.

Merriman's true end had been no less of a climactic final battle, but that version of   
events had never left Will laughing. The Abominable Snowman bit, on the other hand,   
never failed to elicit at least a smile. It was really rather ironic -- only a creature   
whose existence was doubtable could have done in the irascible Professor Lyon,   
whose true manner of existence was also doubtable. Or at least it would have been   
had anyone known about it.

Grinning to the empty room, Will thought that Merriman would have preferred the   
yeti story to the stuffy form-letter content of the _Times_ article.

"They probably looked alike, too," Will commented to the fire. "All that white hair."

The flames dipped forward in acquiescence, then settled again.

He amused himself for a few moments, as he always did when he reread the student   
article, with the ridiculous image of Merriman and the Abominable Snowman engaging   
in fisticuffs. With a soft chuckle, he looked back to the real article and read the droning   
list of Merriman's achievements again. There was Will's summary; now to delve deeper.

Will rose, rummaged in the newly straightened piles for a blank piece of paper and a   
pen, and sat back down with an old and boring cookbook that had come in a "mystery   
grab bag" of books he'd bought on a whim. Placing the paper on the cookbook -- who   
needed a lap desk when one had so many coffee table books to choose from? -- and   
gazing back at the _Times_ article, he thought for a moment, and then started to write.

_Places to Look_

_1. His books  
2. His articles  
3. Talk to Jack Clairmont  
4. The Bod  
5. The things in his office?_

He stopped after the fifth item and tapped his pen on it, eyes narrowed. That might be the   
best indicator of where Merriman had been before Oxford -- how many faculty members   
had various artifacts from their personal lives lying around their offices? Jim Leonard   
had a selection of fishing lures; Jack Clairmont, the only don left at St. John's who had   
known Merriman as more than a passing acquaintance, had a hat shaped like a parrot's   
head. (Will had never understood why, and had only become more confused when   
Clairmont had insisted on playing him a song called "Cheeseburger In Paradise".)   
He himself kept the hunting horn Miss Greythorne had given him on a small table in   
the corner of his office.

The hunting horn. 

He set aside the pen and paper, and stared into the glowing embers of the fire. It was   
highly unlikely that Merriman had kept any particular object with him throughout his   
extended existence. And yet Will knew, then and there, that the little horn would stay   
with him always -- no matter where he was or what he chose to do.

Continuity. With a thousand lifetimes before him, that was what he would crave, by   
the end.

* * *

His research began early the next morning. Professor Lyon's books and articles were   
the easiest things to obtain, especially in a University town where used bookstores were   
as plentiful as intoxicated students on Boat Race night. A few hours' search turned up   
the few books that Will didn't already own in one form or another. By lunch he had   
returned, weary but triumphant, to his rooms. He fixed himself a sandwich, polished   
it off in minutes, and settled down to reading.

By the time the shadows in his study-office had lengthened enough for him to switch   
on the reading light, he had come to the conclusion that the books were telling him   
little that he hadn't known already. One expedition was very like another, and there   
seemed to be no discernable pattern to the digs. A group of Neolithic dwellings in   
eastern France. A Roman mine in northwestern Spain. An ancient city in Persia, a   
Viking ship off the Scottish coast, an early Coptic Christian monastery in Egypt.   
No real pattern, unless...unless....

This was leading him nowhere. He had to go to a real person first, talk to someone   
who had actually known Merriman in a professional capacity. And John Clairmont   
wasn't getting any younger.

He knew that John had been Merriman's research assistant back in the early 1970s.   
John was now an emeritus, formerly University Lecturer for Archaeological Science,   
resided at St John's College -- and was due to leave his rooms in College at the end   
of the term.

Will checked his watch. Clairmont would likely still be in his office. There wasn't   
any reason he couldn't leave the man a note, even if he wasn't. Will turned off his   
lamp and left.

Dark clouds loomed as he walked over to Clairmont's office in the Sir Thomas   
White Building. Right as the first drops of rain began to fall, Will entered the   
building. Clairmont's office was on a corner of the second floor. Light spilled   
out into the dark corridor; Will knocked on the half-open door.

"Come in!" a strong voice called.

Will pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was so organized as   
to be austere; it was, in other words, nothing like Will's own. The only somewhat   
offbeat point to it was, of course, the parrot head hat. Clairmont had music playing   
softly as he worked at his desk. "Take a chair -- I'll be with you momentarily." He   
kept writing without looking up.

Will waited, and amused himself by examining the titles on Clairmont's shelves.   
There were the usual dry and dusty works, including, Will was glad to see, a few   
of Merriman's own. On the same shelf as the parrot hat, however, rested two elderly   
books in a place of honour: _A Pirate Looks At Fifty_ and _Tales from Margaritaville_.   
Will thought it was perhaps better not to ask.

The song ended, and Clairmont reached over to a low shelf and turned off the music.   
He looked up at Will; his turtle-like features disappeared in a mire of wrinkles as he   
smiled. "Young William Stanton, unless I miss my guess."

Will returned the smile automatically. "You're looking well, John."

"And I'll be even better once I get out of this icebox of an office -- thank God I'm   
retiring in Key Largo. And it's Jack, Will. You know better than that."

"Yes. Sorry." Will looked down at the selection of CDs on the shelf and said, "Don't   
tell me you're still listening to that stuff."

Clairmont looked at him reproachfully. "Once a Parrot Head, always a Parrot Head."   
Then he gave a dry, dusty laugh. "What are you here for, Will?"

He hesitated. "I need information about Merriman Lyon."

"Really." Clairmont's voice became slow and thoughtful as he leaned back in his chair,   
tucking his hands behind his bald head. "And what would you want to know about him?"

"Anything you remember."

Clairmont's eyebrows rose. "May I inquire as to your purposes? Being as I don't see   
the connection between Merry and your own work."

There was a pause, in which Will worked out something he could say. Finally, he   
said quietly, "It's a personal thing."

"Meaning you would rather I didn't pry." Clairmont rocked a little in his chair. "I don't   
think there would be harm in telling, as he's been gone for so long. Where do you want   
me to begin?"

"Anywhere you feel comfortable." Will looked at the small, wrinkly face; something   
in him relaxed. "I appreciate this, Jack."

Clairmont waved a hand before replacing it behind his head. "Not at all. Good   
lord...where to start? I was an undergraduate here when I saw a notice that Merry   
was looking for a research assistant, and this was Professor Merriman Lyon -- a   
very big deal. He was one of the names I kept seeing when I was doing a bit of   
reading in archaeology on my own before I came up, and I begged him for the   
chance to work with him. I still remember what he said when I went to speak   
with him for the first time -- he looked down at me over that nose of his, gave   
me something between a smile and a smirk, and said, 'I think you'll do admirably,   
Mr Clairmont. Good day.' And with that, I was dismissed. That was what I got   
after I'd spent ten minutes expounding on why I absolutely _had_ to work for _the_   
Merriman Lyon. That was the sort of man Merry was -- didn't put up with much   
fuss, no matter how hard you tried to fuss. He wouldn't say anything much...just   
sort of let you rant and rave and then very calmly take the piss out of you with a   
few well-placed words. And then, while your head was still spinning from what   
he'd said to you before, he'd somehow make you agree to do whatever he wanted   
you to do. A master of human behaviour, that man."

Will's knuckles were white; he was clenching the armrests of his chair.

Clairmont paused, thinking. 'Talking about human behaviour...one of the things   
that always astounded me was his ability to deal with the rest of the Department,   
and the College -- hell, even the University, and you know what that's like. He   
somehow dealt with it by _not_ dealing with it. He must've had to sit through the   
same endless sordid squabbles over grants and funding and changes to the degree   
requirements, but I don't remember him ever remarking on it or even being troubled   
by it.' He chuckled quietly. 'Of course, when you're the great Professor Lyon, with   
the positively uncanny knack for finding sites of fantastic historical significance,   
you could easily tell the paper-pushers at the University Council to shove off.'

Will laughed at that, hoping the laugh didn't sound as hollow to Clairmont as it   
did to him. He let go of the chair before he could do actual damage to the wood,   
and clasped his hands in his lap instead. 'I can imagine. With a reputation like   
that...speaking of which, what was he like to work under?'

'Hellish.' The older man held up a hand at Will's startled expression. 'But I knew  
that when I went to him in the first place. Oh, I'll admit that the first time he told   
me to re-do the chapter I'd spent two solid weeks working on, I was a wreck.   
But he'd tell you what was rubbish about your work in such a way that you'd be   
kicking yourself by the end of the tutorial, wondering how you'd overlooked   
something that obvious. And on digs, you did what you were told, by god -- but   
when they were over you could talk the ear off anyone who asked you what you'd   
found. You learned things without knowing you'd learned them. That was the kind  
of supervisor he was.' A wistful look crossed his face. 'I've tried to be like him in   
some small way, but I know I've never even come close. And now it's a little late   
in the day for that.'

Will nodded, silently. 'I can understand that,' he said at last. 'I know the feeling.   
He was a great loss to the University.'

Clairmont's eyes clouded over. 'I was incredibly lucky to have worked with him,   
even for that short time. I probably owe my place here to him, come to think of it.   
I applied for my post almost as soon as I had my doctorate, since there'd been a lot   
of reorganising of the Department when old Avery was promoted to take Merry's   
place shortly after....' His voice trailed off as memory caught up with him, but after   
a moment he blinked quickly, and his gaze settled on Will again. 'You've been here   
awhile, too, haven't you? How long has it been?'

'Oh, thirty-odd years,' Will said, quite calmly. 'I try not to think about it too much.'

'Good,' the older man said firmly. 'Don't think about it.' His kindly smile had a   
conspiratorial leer to it that was faintly unnerving. 'Anything else you wanted me   
to dig up about Merry, then? Seeing as how I was only a lowly student drudge at   
the time, I don't know that I'll be able to provide you with the sort of answers I   
imagine you're looking for.'

Will pressed on before Clairmont's smile could unnerve him completely. 'Did he   
ever talk about...about what he'd done before Oxford?'

'Oh, no,' Clairmont said immediately. 'Not so much as a flicker of a hint about that.   
Then again, as far as any of us who worked with him were concerned, he might as   
well have sprung out of the Department like Athena from Zeus's forehead -- fully   
clothed and ready for battle.'

Will had to laugh out loud at that mental image, which in his opinion was almost   
as good as the one involving the yeti. Clairmont laughed with him.

He allowed them a few moments to settle, and then he asked, "What was his office  
like?"

"An absolute wreck. I walked in on him once while he was trying to put it to rights,   
and he was just standing there helplessly in his shirtsleeves, not knowing where to   
begin. Fortunately -- or unfortunately for me -- my mother was a stickler about   
keeping things organized and in their proper places, and seeing him like that...I   
couldn't help but step in and help him out. That was one of the very few times I ever   
saw him at a loss for words or movement." Clairmont sighed. "It took us the better   
part of the evening -- I don't think I got back to my own quarters until two that   
morning -- but we finally got it straightened out. And it actually stayed that way   
for a few weeks, too." He grinned. "It got to where I'd slip in once a month or so   
while he was out and try to put a dent in the wreckage. Didn't do much, though."

"Did he keep anything with personal significance in there?"

Clairmont regarded him evenly, then said, "That's a very strange question, Will   
Stanton."

Will shrugged. "You keep that hat in here, and that's fairly mystifying."

"I surely hope," said Clairmont mockingly, "that you're not blaspheming against  
Saint Buffett."

"Not at all," Will said. He grinned. "Just trying to make a point."

"Point taken. Give me a moment." Clairmont rose and went to the window,   
stretching. The day had darkened, and the rain was falling hard against the glass.  
Finally, Clairmont clasped his hands behind his back and said, "He kept a glass   
paperweight on a shelf by itself. It wasn't holding down any papers -- that was a   
very Merry thing to do, so I didn't take much notice of it when I was in there most   
of the time. I saw him pick it up every now and again, though -- he held it like a   
Buddhist holding prayer beads. That made me curious enough to have a look at it   
once. There was an inscription engraved on it -- I don't remember exactly what it   
said, but the date on it was 1911. Oh, and it had a seal from one of those Ivy   
League universities. I forget which one" He turned around to face Will again.   
"That's the only thing I can think of."

There was something in Clairmont's face that made Will wait before commencing   
with the usual end-of-visit formalities.

The old man said quietly, "I'm not going to ask you how you knew him, Will. That's   
not important. What is important is that you know that he was the most remarkable   
man I've ever known, and one of the kindest. There were a few instances when one   
or the other of his undergraduates had bad things happen -- deaths in the family and   
whatnot -- and for such a stern man, he had an extraordinary talent for knowing what   
to say or not to say, or what to do or not to do. He couldn't make it better, but he could   
alleviate some of the hurt, and he did that whenever he could. It wasn't a love-fest or   
anything like that -- Merry was most certainly not the type to offer a shoulder to cry   
on -- but it helped. All of us who worked under him...we were a family, and we knew   
it -- and we had him to thank. It was a horrible blow when he disappeared in Nepal   
that summer." Clairmont turned back to the window. "Part of me still wants to believe   
that he's out there somewhere, biding his time in a monastery -- that he found Shangri-La   
or something like that." He laughed softly. "What a thing for an academic man to say,   
eh, Will? But somehow -- it would fit Merry." Clairmont paused. "That's the worst thing   
about getting old. Everything you knew fades, and eventually, you're the last one left.   
Things fade when no one remembers them. And then" Clairmont's voice became   
brisk again. "And then you make poor, defenceless young people sit and listen to your  
tales." Looking over his shoulder, he smiled at Will. "I'll send you my address once   
I'm in Key Largo. You're required to come for a visit, you know."

Will swallowed heavily. It would not do to let Clairmont see how much he'd been   
affected by the man's words. "I'd like that."

"I'm about to turn the Buffett back on, so you'd best leave while you can." Clairmont   
reclaimed his chair and reached for the CD player, one eyebrow arched.

That elicited a laugh. "I'll take the hint. Thanks, Jack. You've -- you've helped me   
out a lot. I appreciate it."

Another wave of the hand as keyboard, guitar, and drums filled the room. "Not at all.   
Not at all. Goodbye, Will -- and good luck with whatever it is you're doing."

Will lingered a moment at the door, looking at the last man other than himself to have   
known Merriman with any degree of closeness, and then left. He knew it would be the   
last time he saw Jack Clairmont. It was too dangerous to have it any other way.

* * *

The music followed him out of the building, and he paused outside the front door,   
holding it half-open with one hand. He had seen pictures of Clairmont as a young man,   
and it wasn't much of a stretch of the imagination to think of him as a research student,   
energetic and eager and very much in awe of his distinguished professor.

He was a little jealous of Clairmont, truthfully. He had only seen glimpses of Merriman's   
academic life: the Ford Foundation dig at Caerleon that had unearthed the Signs was his   
most vivid memory. It had been a part of Merriman that Will, the youngest of the Old   
Ones, had never really known. He envied Clairmont the time he had had to work with   
Merriman, envied that time of close connection and understanding that can arise between   
a student and supervisor...between boy and master, so to speak. Will had had it, and there  
had not been nearly enough time to appreciate it then. Reliving it second-hand, through   
another's memories....

No matter. It was nearly time for dinner.

Normally, he would have taken it in College on Saturday evenings, but that would   
require dressing for Formal Hall and tonight he couldn't be bothered. There was   
enough food in his rooms to tide him over until the morning, and at the moment the   
only thing he wanted was the chair before the fire.

He pondered the information he'd received as he brewed a pot of strong, oily-looking   
coffee and took it into his study. Now he had something to go on. 1911 and the memory   
of the sigil of an Ivy League university -- that gave him a date and a possible location.   
From Clairmont's description, the little glass paperweight sounded like some sort of   
commemoration piece. He had one or two of them himself, coffee mugs from academic   
conferences and the like. Tacky things, but practical enough.

He settled into the chair and closed his eyes. It was perfectly plausible that Merriman   
could have spent time overseas, outside of Britain. The only time he would have needed   
to be present in the British Isles was during the dangerous times, the years when unrest   
and the threat of invasion made men most susceptible to the Dark. And at the end, of   
course...but Will wasn't interested in that time.

Merriman's time at Oxford went back to before the Second World War, and he would   
have had to reside in Britain for the Great War as well. From 1914 on, then, he would   
have been Merriman Lyon, archaeological scholar, the well-known Oxford University   
don. But what of before?

Will opened his eyes, and picked up the pad of paper that he had left on the table the   
night before. Before the modern era, it was difficult to say. Documentation in those days   
was often a hit-or-miss affair -- or so his Mediaeval History undergraduates never failed  
to inform him -- and Merriman would not have had to worry so much about keeping hidden   
from the records of men. After 1600, then, was where Will had to start investigating.

An Old One's duty was to guard against the Rising of the Dark. Risings were nearly   
always connected to periods of unrest and threats of invasion. The great invasions of   
Saxon, Norman, and Dane were obvious instances, but there had been many times in the   
modern era when Britain was in danger of tearing itself apart. What with the Gunpowder   
Plot, Charles the First, Oliver Cromwell, the Civil War -- in essence, everything that had   
happened between the death of Elizabeth I and the Glorious Revolution that put William   
of Orange on the throne -- Merriman must have spent the entire span of the 1600s in   
Britain.

Will tapped the pen on the paper, racking his mind to double-check dates and make rough   
estimates accordingly. Finally, he flipped to a clean sheet and began to write. When he   
set the pen down again, he had a new list.

_1600-ca.1700 -- Britain (Civil War, Cromwell, etc.)  
1700-1792 -- unknown  
1792-1815 -- Britain (French Revolution, etc.)  
1815-1874 -- unknown  
1875 -- Britain (Christmas Eve -- Greythorne Manor)  
1875-1910 -- unknown  
1911 -- America (Ivy League university)?  
1912-1973 -- Britain_

He had taken into account the years of Civil War, the rise of Napoleon, the Christmas Eve  
party, Clairmont's memory of the date on the glass paperweight, and the great wars of the   
twentieth century. Surely that was enough to be getting on with, for the moment.

He picked up his mug of coffee, only to discover that the liquid within was stone cold.   
The oily film on top had made rainbow patterns across the surface of the coffee, and the   
patterns shifted and changed colours as they caught the firelight.

He had the when. Now, he needed to find the where and the how.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Forward to Part II


	2. Part Two

Redeemed From Time  
By: Gramarye and Sweeney Agonistes

Part Two

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_What we call the beginning is often the end  
And to make an end is to make a beginning.  
The end is where we start from._

- T.S. Eliot

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Instinct told him that anything Merriman would have tangled with back in 1911 would have   
been fairly significant historically. Thus the next morning found him back in the Bodleian,   
investigating the types of volumes which summarized news events in various years.

1911 was an eventful year by anyone's standards. Ernest Rutherford discovered the nucleus;   
the _Titanic_ was launched; Standard Oil was broken up by the Supreme Court of the United   
States. Gustav Mahler died, and Tennessee Williams was born. The Manchu dynasty was   
overthrown in China. Roald Amundsen reached the South Pole. King George V was crowned,   
the Parliament Act came into effect, and the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre. 

As he turned the page, a grainy photograph of terraced ruins caught his eye. Will looked at   
the caption; it stated blankly that in 1911, Hiram Bingham of Yale University discovered the   
famous Inca city of Machu Picchu.

The hair on the back of Will's neck stood to attention. He could not take his eyes from the   
photograph.

he said softly to himself, we have 1911, an Ivy League university, and a significant   
archaeological discovery.

Will replaced the book and went to the card catalogue. He made a few notes, submitted his   
requests, and then went outside for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to get his head in order.   
He had work to do. 

He went back inside to his carrel; within two minutes, a woman with soft brown hair came   
with the stack of books he'd requested. With a smile, he took them from her and set to work. _  
The Diaries of Hiram Bingham_ lay on the top of the stack. The most obvious thing came first.   
Will flipped to the index and ran a finger down the L section.

_Lyon, Merriman (Doctor) – 28, 99, 107, 131-33, 241, 245, 247, 251, 258-61_

The page numbers danced on and on; Will was dancing inwardly.

He carefully turned pages, starting with the earliest entries. Fortunately, Bingham's diary   
style was a good step above the Marchmont woman's. He read a little, skimmed some more,   
and finally came to page twenty-eight. 

_....though nearing Coropuna. Came across an Englishman by the name of Lyon yesterday,   
working in the village we passed in the morning. Older man, quiet type. Seemed to be a   
doctor, some sort of physician – had apparently done wonders for the natives with basic   
medicines and so forth, though he didn't claim to be affiliated with any particular church._

Will paused, his finger on the page at the paragraph's end. Merriman, posing as a medical   
doctor? It was possible – with him, anything was possible – but it came as a surprise   
nonetheless. 

Further reading revealed that Merriman had indeed posed as a doctor, an Englishman educated   
in Germany. (He would make it more complicated than it had any need to be,' Will muttered   
under his breath.) Bingham's party had had a doctor already, one of the explorer's friends from   
his college days at Yale, but another English-speaking man was more than welcome in their   
group – and the new man's familiarity with the area was also most welcome. Merriman's name   
appeared in the diaries on occasion, scattered quite casually through the pages.

_....Lyon pointed out some interesting butterfly specimens to Harry [Harry Foote, the   
naturalist' of the party) earlier, and Harry ran off for a good hour with his net...._

_....snakes are still worrying in these parts, though Lyon assures us that there is no truth in   
the tale that certain species are capable of springing upon their prey. I wish I could believe   
him...._

Will read further, taking notes with pencil, trying to keep his hand from shaking every time he   
came upon Merriman's name. According to Bingham, the elderly gentleman had not been present   
at the first sighting of Machu Picchu. His name was conspicuously absent from the diary on that   
matter. But a later entry, after a good fifty pages of rhapsodising over the discoveries, sent a   
shiver racing up Will's spine:

_When Doctor Lyon first insisted that we stop at Mandor Pampa for the night, I was indeed   
loath to set up camp in a place that seemed clearly inhospitable. The rain, the air, everything   
seemed to be against us. Yet now I see it for the stroke of luck it was, for things might have   
turned out very differently indeed had I not made the final decision that turned out to be all   
for the best._

Will closed the book, and leaned back in his chair. A memory swam up into his thoughts,   
something his aunt Fran had said down in Cornwall, early on in the Easter holiday that he   
and Simon and Jane and Barney had spent looking for the grail...and the precious manuscript   
that would decipher it: 

_And such a sweetie -- he came all the way to Ohio to spend a few days with us last fall,   
when he was over giving a lecture at Yale.'_

Will chuckled quietly to himself. He would have bet every last pence in his bank account that   
Merriman's lecture had centred on the details of Hiram Bingham's fantastic, ground-breaking,   
and wholly unexpected archaeological find – an ancient city hidden away in the farthest reaches   
of the Andes.

He wondered if delivering that lecture had made Merriman feel at all smug. It was possible,  
certainly. If you wanted to be polite about it, it could be said that Merriman was a details   
sort of man who appreciated the overall picture, and lived his life accordingly. 

Even if that life was several thousand years in span, Will said softly. But there – it would   
do him no good to get overwhelmed again. That was why he was engaging in this research,   
after all. It would be all right. Of that he was certain.

Where now, though? The day was still young; there was much time in which to continue the   
search. As much as he wanted to look closer at Merriman's fling in South America, he could   
not afford to do so – not when his colleagues had begun to notice that he wasn't ageing as he   
should. Not when he had given away too much to Jack Clairmont, even if Clairmont would   
soon settle into obscurity in the Florida Keys. Right now he simply needed to trace Merriman's   
presence in history. There would be time enough to look at the details – to find, if possible,   
how Merriman had made the change form whatever he was before to world-renowned   
archaeologist. That information would be what Will needed, in the end.

He looked down at the notes he had taken that morning.

_28 – There already. Posing as doctor. Educated in Germany?_

There was the route he should take. A survey of German universities was in order. Will ran   
a quick mental check of Merriman's degrees, both earned and honorary. Nothing from Germany,  
as far as he could recall.

He sighed and rose. Merriman certainly hadn't made this easy for him. There was nothing he   
could do, though. He had to press on.

Will's attitude had changed radically by the time the Bodleian closed for the night. Using   
every resource available to him, he had made a thorough investigation of every school he   
could find in Germany that offered medical training – and there was nothing. Absolutely   
nothing.

A nasty thought occurred to him as he was walking back to his rooms. Perhaps Merriman had   
only said he was educated in Germany to prevent Bingham from asking questions. It was   
possible, and more than that, it was something that Merriman would have done.

He unlocked his door, flicked on the closest lamp, and collapsed in his chair. Will sat there   
for a good hour before he said flatly to the room: 

I'm sulking. 

The responding silence was deafening.

That realisation made, he got up, knelt at the grate, and made a fire. It is better, after all,   
he said as he struck a match, to have a fire to talk to than no one at all.

The flames roared into life, and he went to make tea.

His world thus put back to rights, Will settled back in his chair and said to the fire, My   
hands shook whenever I came across his name today.

The fire did nothing out of the ordinary.

I've got to be more careful about my reactions. I mean, look what happened with Clairmont.   
He was able to figure out that I'd known Merriman somehow – and I'm not stupid, and neither   
is he. As old as I lookcommon sense would tell anyone that there's no way I could have   
known him. I knew very well what I was doing, and I didn't stop.

The flames shivered slightly.

After a pause, Will said, I don't suppose I should speculate on why my hands shook.

A charred log cracked in two; sparks shot up into the chimney.

I think His voice faded, and he rested his chin on his hand.

The fire crackled merrily, encouraging him.

So softly that he wasn't entirely sure he was speaking at all, Will said, I think finding   
Merriman is more important personally than it is professionally. If you take my meaning.

The flames fell a bit, then burst back into life with a darker intensity.

Maybe I should go to bed. He felt bleak. Maybe things will look different tomorrow.

The fire fell into darkness, but that was his own doing. He never left the fire going when   
he went to bed, although there was no danger of the fire escaping the grate. It was nice to   
have a friend whenever one needed one, but to summon the fire more often than it was   
needed was a sign of weakness, and that was unacceptable. Merriman, Will knew, would   
not have approved. 

* * *

The next morning, his mood hadn't improved. A restless night had done nothing to improve   
it, and a most unsatisfactory breakfast of nearly stale toast and one soft-boiled egg had only   
made it worse. Will was sorely tempted to spend the day hiding in his rooms with a thick,   
fuzzy blanket and a comfort book', but a brief survey of his cupboards and his tiny refrigerator  
told him that unless he was going to fake his own death by starvation, he needed groceries.

The supermarket was crowded, so Will set about stocking his basket with necessities to get   
in and out as fast as possible. Bread, eggs, tins of soup. He hovered over the custard tarts   
before giving in and adding them to the top of the pile, looking around rather guiltily as he   
did so. He held the basket high as he moved through the milling crowd, past a mother trying  
to quiet a squalling toddler, and once he was clear of the throng he paused to eye the queues.   
It seemed a futile hope to think of finding one that was moving at more than a snail's pace,   
but he selected the most likely one and settled down to wait.

Professor! Professor Stanton!'

It was a young woman's voice, and one that Will knew well. He half-turned, glancing round,   
to see the young woman in question walking toward him, juggling a loaf of bread, a notebook,   
and several bags of jelly babies. 

Ah, Miss Leyden,' he said genially, inclining his head as she sidestepped the yelling child   
and took her place behind him in the queue. How are you doing?'

I'm fine, and it's Annie, professor,' the girl said, tucking the loaf of bread under her arm and  
pushing her brown hair out of her face. You don't have to be so formal about it – I'm not in  
your tutorial anymore.'

And I'm still reeling from the loss,' he replied with a smile. It was a familiar start to their   
conversations. Annie Leyden had been reading history under Will's supervision in her   
undergraduate days, and it had been his gentle prodding that had helped her make switch   
from her original intent to study the Norman invasion – a topic that had fascinated her father   
but had bored her to tears – to her current graduate work in early British colonial studies.   
How's the research progressing?'

Oh, well enough,' Annie said. Buried in the archives, as usual. I've been stuck on the   
records of the East India Company for the last week and a half. Every time I think I've   
found what I'm looking for, it just peters out into a dead end.'

Will let out a little huff of breath, the closest he would allow himself to a sigh. I know   
the feeling.'

I'll stop by and show them to you sometime.' The loaf of bread was starting to slip down,   
and Annie tucked the jelly babies under her chin to give it a shove upwards. You might   
find them interesting. I've come across at least half-dozen Stantons in the crew rosters –   
d'you think you might be related to any of them?'

It's possible.' Will felt a tightness at the back of his throat. It was all too easy to conjure   
up a memory of Stephen, looking nervous and stiff in full Navy dress regalia. Anything's   
possible, unless it's clearly impossible.'

Annie chuckled. So you always told me. And that's why I thought – oh!'

The bread had slipped down again, and in her haste to grab at it the notebook that she had   
tucked under her other arm fell to the floor. She made a frustrated noise and tried to hold   
onto all the bags of jelly babies, and at the same time she knelt awkwardly and started to   
grope for her notebook.

Here, let me.' Will bent and picked it up for her, rescuing a few loose papers that had slid   
out of it during the fall. He straightened up, and was about to return the loose sheets to the   
front of the notebook, but before he could open the front cover an odd prickling sensation   
scurried up his spine.

He looked down at the paper in his hand. It was covered in notes and doodles in Annie's   
messy hand – a hand that had made him thankful for word processing on more than one   
occasion – and it looked to be part of a list of officers and their ships. His eye fell on   
one entry near the bottom of the page.

_Ship: Pridewin  
Master: Lyon (Commodore)  
Destination: Bombay  
- ship lost with all hands aboard – ca. December 1789_

Will's first thought was that there had to have been at least a few men with the surname   
of Lyon working for the East India Company, and that this likely wasn't Merriman. His   
second thought countered that while there may have been several Lyons, there couldn't   
be very many Lyons in command of a ship with that particular name.

He slowly looked up at Annie, who was caught up in her attempts to wrangle the jelly   
babies into a manageable state. Troublesome things – I suppose this is the universe's   
way of punishing me for getting them – She cut off mid-grumble and peered at him.   
Professor Stanton?

Will made a mental note of the date the ship had been lost, tucked the stray paper back in   
the notebook, and handed it back to Annie, who had the loaf of bread gingerly tucked under   
her arm. I do apologise for prying, but – you said you were looking at ship's records?

Yes – the ones that sank, mostly. I'm looking at the finances of the Company right now,   
and lost ships had a pretty large effect on its financial situation, as one could imagine.   
Annie used the notebook to brush her hair out of her eyes.

Will thought quickly. Is what you've found in a state to be looked at right now?

It's in bits and pieces, but there's a general coherency to the whole thing.

Would you like to join me for coffee? You can tell me about it, and if you'd like, I can   
give you some suggestions.

Annie's excitement made her almost drop the bread again. Sure! I'm at that point where   
if I set eyes on the library within the next twenty-four hours or so, I'll scream – but what   
I've got so far needs to be talked about. You're sure you're not too busy?

Not at all, said Will. I need to take all this back to my rooms first. Is an hour enough   
time for you to get everything together?

Definitely – there's a little place called Indigo just round the corner – have you been   
there?

Once or twice. Will withheld judgement on the place; it was not one of his favourite   
establishments, which rather meant, he thought, that his age was showing. He began to   
unload his basket, glancing at his watch as he did so. Eleven-thirty, then?

He heard, rather than saw, her grin. I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate   
this, Professor Stanton.

He inclined his head. It's rather nice to get my head out of my element for a while – and   
a little off-topic knowledge is always a useful thing. The checker gave him his total, and   
he paid up. I'll see you shortly.

As Will left, he was smiling. Useful, indeed, he murmured. Quite useful.

* * *

Forty-five minutes was all that Will needed to return to his rooms and put away his   
groceries – and then _re_-put away the groceries when he realised that he had placed   
the two tins of mushroom soup in the icebox and put a packet of frozen peas under the   
sink, next to the dish liquid.

Calm down, you fool,' he hissed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Chances   
are you're getting all worked up for nothing.' He splashed water on his face and ran   
his wrists under the cold water tap for good measure. Two minutes later he was out   
the door, briefcase in hand, coat collar turned up against the brisk wind that was   
whipping down the street.

The Indigo was a moderately small coffeeshop that prided itself on being free, fair,   
and independent', a statement that roughly translated to a sort of reverse snobbery   
amongst its patrons – no soulless corporate coffee sold here, thank you very much.   
A piece of paper taped to the grimy till at the main counter proclaimed in bold black   
marker-pen that all coffee and tea products sold in the establishment came from   
companies that treated their workforce like wage-labourers, not slave-labourers.   
An admirable sentiment, in Will's opinion, though he couldn't help but notice that   
the sign on the till was mostly obscured by a large glass fish-bowl labelled Tip   
Jar' in the same black marker-pen.

A large green tea – for here, please,' he added as the young woman at the till   
reached for a paper cup. Wordlessly, the girl switched to a white china mug and   
handed it to a boy next to her, who prepared the tea with a practised speed whilst   
Will paid for his hot drink. Tea in hand, Will picked up his briefcase and turned   
round to find a table just as Annie raced into the coffeeshop, a voluminous shoulder   
bag bumping against her side.

Oh, I was going to get that for you!' she exclaimed, dumping her bag on the nearest   
clean table. I work here on weekdays – employee discount and all that.' She glanced   
over Will's shoulder, and said to the girl at the till, Double mocha, Kath, and tell   
Nick not to skimp on the whipped cream.' That taken care of, she turned back to   
Will with a bright smile. Sit, sit – won't take a minute.'

He sat, and took a tentative sip of the tea, trying to keep the scalding liquid from   
searing the tip of his tongue. After a moment's amiable bickering with her co-workers,  
Annie slid into the chair across from him and set a handful of change on the table.

Here's the difference,' she said, cradling her mug in both hands. Wouldn't want you   
paying more than you have to, especially for a cuppa.'

Oh, no,' he protested, pushing the money back toward her. You've got tuition to think   
about, and I'm gainfully employed. Or what passes for it, considering that it's the History  
faculty.'

Annie grinned at him. I'd make some smart remark about that, but then again I haven't   
got the luxury of tenure.' She set her bag on the floor and rooted through it, producing   
two notebooks and a sheaf of clipped-together papers from its depths. I've got a basic   
outline down, and last night I tried to start a few rough chapter drafts, but it's the old   
problem all over again. I can't make what I've got _here_' – she tapped the notebooks –   
and _here_' – she tapped her forehead – into something that even looks like an opening   
paragraph.'

Mm.' Will was quite familiar with the old problem, which he privately attributed   
to one too many sixth-form essays written the night before they were due. Annie had   
a tendency to be incapable of writing anything without adrenalin and looming deadlines   
lighting a fire beneath her...and some caffeinated product at her side. 

Well, let's take a step back then,' he said at last. Unconsciously, he had adopted   
the fingers-steepled, slightly leaning-forward posture that he often used during his   
undergraduate tutorials. What's your research about, and what is it going to allow   
you to prove?'

He thought he saw a brief flash of mirth in Annie's eyes as she launched into an   
explanation of her intended dissertation. The East India Company had been Britain's   
means of expansion in South Asia, and Annie had intended the use the company's   
records, British government documents, and the personal papers of Company officers,   
men, and their families to examine and chart the changing attitude of the British public   
toward further expansion into India. She seemed genuinely interested in her subject,   
and her enthusiasm for the topic increased as the level of mocha in her mug decreased. 

Will listened patiently, asking a question or two when he needed further clarification,   
reading over the papers she passed to him. When she handed him the notebook that had   
contained the paper with the note about Commodore Lyon on it, he studied the paper   
carefully before setting it down on the table.

This here – ' he said casually, pointing to the entry. Take this one entry, for example.   
What do you imagine the people on the ship must have felt in the moments before it   
sank?'

Annie looked rather startled at the abruptness of the question. I...I don't quite see   
what...you're asking what the crew _felt_? Before the ship sank?'

Well, I seriously doubt that they went down singing Rule Britannia in perfect   
choral harmony,' Will replied dryly.

Not under Commodore Lyon, certainly,' Annie said with a giggle.

Oh?' Will sipped at his tea, not caring that it was rapidly growing tepid. And   
why is that?'

Well...I'm actually being unfair to the man.' Annie shuffled the papers in her hands.   
Most of the E.I.C.'s ship Masters weren't much more than petty tyrants. Not surprising,   
seeing as how it was a time when the Royal Navy was still nabbing men off the streets   
and press-ganging them into the service. According to some of the records and journals   
I've come across, though – those of customs officials, other captains and the like – this   
Lyon seemed to be one of the more decent captains. Which in those days meant that he   
didn't order his men flogged for trivial offences.'

Will nodded, very slowly. But you can't exactly see him leading a chorale of seamen   
in a stirring, heart-felt rendition of Abide With Me.'

Annie shook her head, grinning. Good lord, no.'

Do you have any of the documents pertaining to this Lyon fellow with you?

Yes – I copied some of them out, although it was hard – these people had atrocious   
handwriting. She rifled through a notebook and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Sliding   
them over to Will, she said, I know, I know – pot kettle and all that.

Will gave the only answer he could – a raised eyebrow and a half-smile. He then   
turned his attention to the papers.

_Four hundred miles out from Calcutta. Rendezvoused with the _Pridewin_ today.   
Dined with Commodore Lyon; his men are startlingly disciplined. When I inquired   
as to how he did it, he said that he gave them no cause for complaint, and so they   
behaved themselves. I have no doubt we were both thinking of the mutiny on the_   
Brookings.

He looked up at Annie and tapped her notes. Who was this?

She peered at the paper. That's an entry from the diary of James McFarland.   
He was a captain – when it came to the treatment of his men, he was somewhere   
between Lyon and the old captain of the _Brookings_.

So Lyon was esteemed by his peers?

They thought he was rather odd, but he kept to himself and did his job, and the   
higher-ups in the Company were satisfied. That was all that mattered, really.   
Although – Annie grinned. The master of the _Brookings_ also kept a diary,   
and he and Lyon got into an altercation in Bombay once – he accused Lyon of   
being too soft on his crew.

Will chuckled. The irony burns.

Horribly. And what's even better – he said that Lyon just stood there and looked   
at him like he was a rat or something. Didn't say anything – just looked at him.   
Annie looked pleased. He must have had presence, that's for sure. Someone   
painted a portrait of the _Brookings_'s master – Edwards was his name – and   
maybe the artist was exaggerating, but Edwards looked like he could have been   
a bouncer somewhere.

He must have had presence, indeed. Will smiled; he had enough to work with   
now, and to ask anything more might arouse suspicion. So – your next point brings   
attention to the attitudes of the landed nobles. Tell me about that.

They chatted for another half hour on the subject of Annie's dissertation. Will   
offered advice where he could. Annie ordered another double mocha, this time   
with extra chocolate syrup. Gradually, their conversation turned away from work   
and on to old times.

You never did tell me why you finally chose to stay here for postgraduate work.'   
Will tapped his fingers lightly on the scarred, scratched wood of the tabletop.   
Especially when there was a span of about three weeks where you could talk   
of nothing but having the chance to work with Dr Phelps, over at that other place.'

Annie spluttered as she drained the last of her mocha, and made a face at him as she   
set her mug down. I can't believe _anyone_ still calls it that,' she said exasperatedly.   
No, that's not true. If anyone still did, you would.'

Some traditions need to be kept alive,' Will countered calmly. All part of the job.'

His former pupil, well used to his idea of tradition, rolled her eyes. Look, it's not   
as if I've committed high treason by applying to Cambridge.' 

A truly apt expression, that,' Will said, chuckling. After all, to paraphrase an old   
saying, Cambridge produces the martyrs that Oxford burns.' A little of the smile faded   
from his face. But seriously, why did you choose to stay?'

I suppose it just felt more comfortable here,' said Annie, after a moment's thought.   
I mean, it was enough of a shock coming here from someplace like Herne Bay in   
the first place. I know how things work here, and I figured that if they'd take me, I   
might as well stay. It made sense.'

So it does,' Will agreed.

Annie nodded, but her eyes had grown troubled. She stared down into her empty mug,   
turning it in her hands. But it's weird, y'know? I know a lot of people at my College,   
but most of the people I knew really well – my friends from my year, that is – aren't   
here anymore. They've all got jobs outside Oxford, or are in London or something,   
or went overseas. But there's times when I'll walk past a restaurant or a pub, and   
just as I go past it I swear I'll see someone I know sitting inside, waving at me. Or   
I'll pick up the phone to dial someone, like Tom or Christina, and I'll punch in their   
old number by mistake –even if I've got their new one right in front of me. It's been   
almost a year now, and I'm still seeing ghosts.' She looked up and gave him a   
sheepish, half-hearted grin. Sounds stupid, I know.'

Will gazed at her for a long moment.

No, it's not stupid,' he said quietly, reflectively. Not in the slightest. It means that   
you have quite a lot of strong memories here, good ones and probably a few bad ones   
as well. But most of them must have been good ones, or you wouldn't have wanted to   
stay. And you're very lucky to have had them, to have enjoyed your time here so much.'   
He set his empty mug to one side and folded his hands on the table. You might not ever   
get rid of those ghosts...but do you honestly want to?'

N...no.' At first her reply was hesitant, but as she spoke her voice grew more confident.   
No, I don't. I'll say that it hurts sometimes, if I'm not having a good day, to walk by   
somewhere and think oh, I had fun there once. Especially if I haven't heard from   
anybody I know in a while. But you can't avoid walking past those places, because   
that's just dumb. It won't make them go away or anything. Do you know what I mean?'

She held Will's gaze as she spoke, and Will found that it was a struggle to maintain his   
normal guarded expression and keep the necessary barriers in place. The absolute last   
thing he wanted was for this young woman, this child, to look at her old professor and   
see the effect that her innocent words had had on him.

Yes,' he said finally, and even though he thought he had waited long enough before   
replying, there was still a huskiness in his voice. Yes. I do.'

Will picked up his empty cup and studied it for a moment, then lifted it to his lips and   
pretended to drink the last of his non-existent tea to keep from having to look at her.

When he put his cup down, she was still watching him, but she only said, Well, there   
you are, then. She smiled, and the moment was broken. And what's that thing Robert   
Frost said? Something like, home is the place that when you go there, they have to take   
you in'. Not that they had to take me in, of course, but it's home anyway, and I like it.

Our enclave is rather likeable, agreed Will solemnly. Much better than that other   
place.

Annie made a small noise of disgust. How do you know? You've never worked   
there. It's just silly prejudice – no, excuse me, it's _tradition_. Honestly."

He sat there, not quite smiling at her.

Eventually, she grinned. That must be your way of being beastly.

Something like that, yes.

With a laugh, she began to sweep all her papers back into various notebooks in   
what seemed to Will to be an extremely haphazard fashion. I reckon I can still   
get some work in today. Annie looked up at him with sudden candour as she   
stuffed the notebooks back in her bag. Thanks, Professor Stanton. You've helped   
me out a lot.

He inclined his head. That's what I'm here for.

She grinned at him again. I'll see you round, yeah?

Most likely. He watched her as she called out her farewells to her co-workers,   
and she waved to him as she went out the door.

Will sat for a few moments, toying with his cup, staring down at the table, not   
knowing what to think.

Then the ludicrous image of Merriman in a rear admiral's hat came to him, and   
he burst out laughing – much to the scornful dismay of Kath and Nick behind the   
counter. The image stayed with him all the way back to his rooms, and he did not   
stop smiling for a very long time. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back to Part I  
Forward to Part III


	3. Part Three

Redeemed From Time   
By: Gramarye and Sweeney Agonistes 

Part Three 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

_And as your fantasies are broken in two   
Did you really think this bloody road would pave the way for you?   
You'd better turn around and blow a kiss hello to life eternal. _

_- Jeff Buckley_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The next few weeks were busy ones for him, as the end of term approached, and as the   
work piled up there was little time for him to think on the information he had gathered thus   
far. He worked some more on his Buckinghamshire history book, though he stuck to earlier   
chapters and avoided the Victorian era altogether. He marked papers, held tutorials, wrote   
letters of recommendation, worked on the odd book review for a mediaeval history journal.   
He kept busy.

During the last weeks of the term, he opened his post and came across a letter from a fellow,   
an American, whom he had met briefly at an academic conference two summers before.   
The man was the primary administrator of a foreign exchange programme at the University   
of Milan, and his letter invited Will to participate in a series of lectures on ecclesiastical   
history given by visiting professors from Europe and America. 

The letter included a number of names of other professors who had agreed to participate.   
All were well respected in their specific fields, but to Will the entire letter read more like a   
laundry list. With a slight sigh he folded it and returned it to its envelope, but just as he was   
about to set it aside to reply to later, he paused. 

_This,_ said a little voice in the back of its mind, _is an opportunity presenting itself to you._

He read over the letter again, more carefully this time. The lecture dates in Milan were   
set for the last weekend of July. The dates reminded him of another conference that he   
had heard mentioned in the Senior Combination Room earlier in the week, one that was   
supposed to take place at the University of Berne in Switzerland. The conference in   
Switzerland was on the socio-political affairs of the Holy Roman Empire - not Will's   
area of interest, but that wasn't important. 

What was important was the fact that the date for the Berne conference was the second to   
last weekend in July. 

Berne and Milan were not far apart by train or by car. In fact, if he attended both, he would   
be left with an entire week free for sightseeing. And that meant - 

Quickly, he pocketed the letter from the American and went into his study. He took the   
Scrapbook down from the shelf and opened it to the two articles about Merriman. He   
scanned the second article, the one from the student newsletter, until he came to the part   
about Merriman and the yeti. 

This time, he didn't smile. He was thinking about Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty   
at the Reichenbach Falls. 

Which, he knew, was in the canton of Berne. 

_Opportunity._ The little voice was not quite so little anymore. 

'Opportunity.' This time, he said it aloud. 

Will walked to the grate and stood in front of it. As he had done once a very long time ago   
on a forgotten road called Oldway Lane, he said quietly, 

The fire leapt into existence like an acquaintance waving in greeting. 

I don't know when I'll get another chance like this, said Will. He began to pace. It   
would be stupid not to take this opportunity. My only concern is that it doesn't leave very   
much time to plan everything out. People don't just _disappear_ these days. 

The fire crackled. He paused in his pacing. 

All right, fine. They do. Will resumed wearing a hole in the rug. It's reappearing that's   
going to be the problem. People need documents and credentials these days, not to mention   
identification cards. This is going to mean I'm going to appear somewhere as a thirty-five-  
year-old with no education or training in anything but being a scholar. And - a _scholar_.   
There's not another job in which credentials are more necessary if you want credibility.   
That, and I've left a paper trail eighteen miles wide. 

Sparks flew up unsympathetically. 

Will sat on the ottoman, staring at the flames. I don't know what to do. I know there are   
people who can forge papers and things, but - how would I begin to know who they are   
and where to find them? And somehow, that's just not right. It's 

The fire was silent. 

That will have to be a last resort, Will said. Which would make more sense - planning   
how I'm going to get out of Switzerland first, or deciding where I'm going to go and what   
I'm going to do? 

Flames dipped forward briefly. 

It would be a good idea to know where I'm going first, I think. But - no, then it would be   
easier to find me, and I can't be found. 

He stood again and, digging under a pile of books, pulled out the folder where he kept all   
his information about Merriman. Will examined all the papers, then tossed the folder aside   
and faced the fire, voice rising in intensity and desperation. I know what he became.   
I know where he was. I just don't know how he got there. I don't know how he did it,   
and that's what I need to know, and it's not like I can just ring him and say, 'Oh, hello,   
Merriman, and how are things outside Time? Lovely. Just lovely. Listen - I need to leave   
my entire life behind and I have no idea how to do it, and I found you in a few places in   
history to see how you did it, but _you didn't do me a damn bit of good_.' 

A log cracked in two and dispersed into bright coals. 

A tight knot had formed in Will's stomach, and another was starting to twist its way into his   
chest. He sat down, but within seconds he was up and pacing again, striding back and forth   
and all the while feeling the knots tighten and pulse, tighten and pulse. 

'All the time in the world, _literally_, and now I'm left with maybe a week, two at the most,   
to set all this up. I have to send confirmations, book plane tickets and train fares and hotel   
rooms and set up a whole bloody travelling itinerary, not to mention the fact that I'll have  
to write up an actual lecture to give, because this has to be authentic.' His pace quickened   
still further. 'The whole thing has to be authentic. It can't have the faintest hint of anything   
suspicious about it, because I'll be damned if my article in the _Times_ says anything about   
my being a possible suici-' 

He would have kept going, but in mid-turn his foot slid on the rug and he skidded --  
and there was a sharp _thunk_ as his right leg ran smack into the ottoman. 

Will bent over, cursing under his breath. He shot a glance at the fire, and saw that the   
flames had risen higher and thinner. 

'You're not helping,' he snapped, rubbing his bruised shin. 

There was an ironic-sounding crackle, almost like a very dry cough, from the coals. 

Grumbling, he limped over to the chair and sank into it, folding his arms across his chest. 

'All right, I know it's do-able,' he said sullenly. 'But it's the details that are going to be the   
difficulty. I mean, I can't just show up thirty years from now with a list of credentials that   
go back well over a century, and somehow expect to make everyone believe that I -' 

He stopped again, and this time the sudden intake of breath wasn't due to pain. 

He could make everyone believe. And it would be just that simple. 

The fire flickered, silently consuming the logs. 

'So that's it, then.' All of the sullenness and anger had gone from Will's voice, leaving it   
subdued, almost breathless. 'I'll have to...fade out. And then...fade back in again, I suppose,   
when the time is right. And in between....' 

He glanced around the room, and his eye fell on the stack of notes he had made for the   
Buckinghamshire history book. The book that would never be finished, though he would   
still have to bring it with him on the -- journey. 

Staring moodily at his pile of notes, a small thought crept into his mind. In Helen   
Marchmont's day, a young man of good family and breeding who had run across   
misfortune -- an unsuitable romance, a bad habit of overspending -- would often be  
shipped off to some far-away place, Ceylon or Burma or Manitoba or New South   
Wales, to make good. And even though the Colonies were no longer coloured red   
on the maps of the world, they hadn't exactly dropped off those maps, either. 

'So what do you think?' Will said thoughtfully, addressing the fire. 'A sheep farmer in   
South Australia? A schoolteacher in the Yukon? A rogue anthropologist, studying the   
lost tribes of Papua New Guinea? Or something else entirely?' 

The fire shivered slightly, then gave a merry crackle. 

Will sighed. 'Thanks. You know how I value your opinion on these things.' 

Perhaps it would be better to be away from people for a while. One could tell things to   
sheep without the worry that they would try to pack you off to a mental institution. 

He shook his head. One thing at a time. It was most important to set up his disappearance   
first. Then he could worry about what would come next. 

They'll check my computer to see where I went, Will said to the fire. So no making   
plans for after the conference from home. That will have to be done elsewhere. 

The flames crackled their agreement. 

But I can make travel plans from here. Set it all up from here. An interesting thought   
occurred to him, and he grinned. I might even need a Swiss bank account. 

Sparks flew up into the chimney. 

Oh, don't be like that. Let me have some fun with this. 

The fire was silent. 

Will extinguished it and went to his computer. 

* * *

He sent letters of confirmation to Berne and Milan. He arranged travel plans. He   
researched sheep farming in Australia, teaching in the Yukon, and dangerous places   
to hike alone in the Alps that were also not very far from points of civilisation -- being   
very careful to use a public computer, of course. The evenings were spent putting together   
a lecture. 

And every night before he fell into bed, exhausted, he stared at the carved wooden box that   
he'd had for years, the one with the dragon on it, the one filled with letters from Stephen   
and other special things he'd kept, and he wondered how he was just going to leave it   
all behind. He couldn't leave the box behind, of course - the letters from Stephen were   
evidence. That would have to go with him, as would the Scrapbook. 

Will sat up in bed suddenly. The Scrapbook was incomplete. If he had the opportunity...he   
might look for that last obituary. 

Just to make things complete, he said softly to himself. It's got to be rounded out. 

He settled again, drew the blanket close around him, and sent himself to sleep before he   
could think about it much more. 

The morning found Will somewhat excited. His very last tutorial was to take place shortly,   
and it was admittedly with a vague feeling of alacrity that he sat in his office, waiting for   
Carpenter to arrive. Shortly, there would be no more undergraduates for him to deal with.   
Ever. 

Will grinned as he went over a printed draft of his lecture in a rather slapdash fashion.   
Despite all the trouble it had been to set everything up in such a short space of time, the   
thought of no more bad essays to read pleased him greatly. 

He glanced up briefly at the knock on the inner door, then checked his watch. Five minutes   
late, as usual. He returned to looking over the lecture. 'Enter.' 

The door opened and Carpenter stepped into the room. 

'I'm terribly sorry to be so late, professor,' he said, in a voice that was meant to sound   
apologetic. 'You know how it is, getting here from halfway across town.' 

'Quite all right, Mr Carpenter,' Will said calmly, without looking up. 'It's only a tutorial.   
Wouldn't want to disrupt you in the middle of a smoke, after all.' 

Carpenter let out a strangled little cough, and though Will hadn't yet looked up from his   
lecture he was certain that the young man had paled considerably. 

'Sit down, sit down.' He set the paper to one side and leaned back in his chair as Carpenter   
set his bookbag next to one of the two chairs opposite. 'A word of advice, though--in   
future, the next time you're late for an appointment, you might do well to ensure that you   
don't have your preliminary cigarette in a doorway that can be seen from the room in   
which your appointment is being held.' 

Carpenter's eyes flickered to the window of Will's office, and he swallowed nervously.   
'Er...yes. Thank you, professor. Sorry.' He sat, perched on the edge of the chair. 

Will nodded absently, shuffling through the papers on his desk. 'Well, then. Last tutorial   
of the year, and I believe you were going to tell me your plans for summer study? You   
mentioned that you'd signed on for an eight-week language immersion programme in   
Paris.' He leaned back again, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. 'Is that still on?' 

Carpenter blinked, visibly relaxing at the prospect of being on safe ground once more.   
'Yes, yes, it is,' he said. 'It's a little scary, but everyone I know who's done it says that it's   
a really great programme. And I've always wanted to learn French--real French, you know,   
not the stuff you get in school.' 

'You've done all right with the Latin you had in school,' Will pointed out. 'Well enough   
for unseen translation, at any rate.' 

'But French is a lot more useful,' said Carpenter flatly, running a hand through his artfully   
messy fair hair. 'People still speak French.' 

'_De mortuis nihil nisi bonum_,' Will murmured. 'Speak kindly of the dead languages, Mr   
Carpenter. Though you're right in the sense that French will be useful to you next term.' 

'It's going to be a lot of fun,' Carpenter said, undaunted. 'The info packet that came a few   
days ago talks about how the programme takes care of everything--meals, dorms, even  
trips outside Paris. And we're not allowed to speak a word of English or whatever our  
original language is. My best friend went on the programme last summer, and he met kids   
from all over the place. Even from America.' 

Will fought back the urge to ask innocently '_And what language do they speak over there?_',   
and merely smiled. 'Well, I'm certain you'll enjoy it. Better than spending eight weeks in a   
classroom with a grammar book and a tape player, I'm sure.' 

'I'll say.' Carpenter beamed. 'Oh, I meant to ask you--how's your research coming? I told   
my granddad the other day that you were working on a book about Bucks, and he wants to   
know when it'll be out. He grew up there.' 

'Well enough,' Will said, setting the question aside as neatly as he had set aside the paper   
with his lecture on it. 'Speaking of research, I believe you have the redraft of that last essay   
for me? I hope you were able to find those articles on the Borgia family.' 

I managed to find them. Carpenter withdrew a few stray papers from his bookbag,   
straightened them, and then handed them to Will. He also wanted to know if you found   
anything interesting about the village of Huntercombe. That's where he lived when he was  
a kid. 

His hand shook; he dropped Carpenter's essay on his desk in an attempt to cover it up.   
A few things, yes. Will spread out the pages of Carpenter's essay on his desk and   
picked up his pen. Let's see what you've done here. 

He settled into his routine, forcing himself to read closely, to ask the sharp, pointed  
questions at the appropriate times, to belabour the points that needed belabouring.   
The essay had improved, and Will told Carpenter so - in a very backhanded fashion,   
admittedly, but Will did not feel like being overly generous with compliments. Just to   
get through this very last tutorial - that would be enough. 

Eventually, Will sat back in his chair. All things, Mr Carpenter, whether good or   
bad, must come to an end. He did not choose to add that the session, in his mind, rather   
leaned toward the latter. 

Carpenter nodded, and took his essay from Will, looking somewhat exhausted. 

My best wishes for you in Paris. Will watched as the boy rose, picked up his bookbag,  
and headed for the door. 

Thanks, professor. Carpenter moved to close the door behind him, but then paused and   
stuck his head back in. Oh - I almost forgot - Granddad told me to ask you if you'd found  
anything about a family named Stanton. 

Will raised an eyebrow. 

Carpenter said slowly, Hey - that's funny. Maybe we're related, professor. 

Anything is possible, Mr Carpenter - 

Unless it's clearly impossible, I know, I know. Carpenter grinned at him. Will kept his   
face blank. His name is Mark Stanton - grew up in the village. His dad was in the Navy   
for years - married a woman from Manchester. And then after his dad died - I think it was   
a hit-and-run in London or something - they left Bucks and went back up to Manchester.   
A bit of a difference, that must have been. From all that countryside to - well, _Manchester_.   
Carpenter assumed a look that was no doubt supposed to convey distaste. Any of this   
sounding familiar, professor? 

said Will to Stephen's great-grandson, his voice trembling slightly. Stephen, who   
had died when Will was twenty-nine. Stephen, whose wife and thirteen-year-old son had  
been so pale and quiet at his funeral. Will said again, his voice stronger. 

Carpenter peered at him. You do rather look like a picture of Granddad when he was   
your age. He was an only child, though. 

As was I. Will said the words quickly, before he could think about the betrayal he was   
making. 

If you don't mind my asking, sir, what were your parents' names? 

There was a flash of horrible blind panic, as ghastly and grating as the squeal of brakes   
on a skidding car. 

'Simon and Jane.' They were the first two names that had come into Will's head, and  
though he wasn't entirely conscious of what he had said, he kept going. 'I'm afraid that   
I don't carry my birth records with me, but then again I don't recall that you've ever shown  
an interest in detailed primary source research.' 

The cold vehemence of his own remark took his breath away, and suddenly he realised that   
he was now standing with both hands planted firmly on his desk, and the young man in the  
doorway was staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide. 

'I...I didn't m-mean to....' Carpenter stammered, and he likely would have continued to   
stammer out an excuse or apology of some kind had Will had not held up a hand to cut him  
off mid-sentence. 

'No, don't apologise. That remark was uncalled for on my part, and I hope you will pardon   
me for it.' Taking a calming breath, he added, 'Even professors start to feel the pressure,   
come exam time. The students aren't the only ones who look forward to the long vacation.'   
It was a poor excuse, and he knew it, but he also knew that it was the only excuse the young   
man would understand. 

'I-It's all right,' Carpenter said with a little laugh, a nervous ghost of a smile on his   
face. 'To tell you the truth, I can't wait to go home myself. It's...this place gets to you,   
sometimes.' 

Will was certain that it was mostly the nervousness talking, but the young man's remark  
interested him. 'How so?' 

'Just....' Carpenter's bookbag slipped off his shoulder and hung, dangling awkwardly,   
from the crook of his arm. He tugged it back into place. 'All this,' he said, glancing   
around Will's office. 'I like history, I do, but-it's just too _much_ sometimes.' 

'Daunting, you mean.' 

Carpenter nodded. 'Sort of.' 

'Ah. Well, you've the makings of a historian, so far as I can see. And I'll tell you this much,   
Mr Carpenter.' He stepped out from behind his desk, and wandered over to one of his   
bookshelves. 'History will always be daunting, even when you've studied it for as long as   
I have. You'll think you've learnt about as much as you can on a certain subject, and then   
there will come a day when you will turn around and realise that you haven't even touched  
the surface of it.' 

He ran a hand across a few titles, and finally selected a slim white hardbound book from   
the upper part of a nearby shelf. 'I had this book when I first started learning French,   
sometime back in the Dark Ages.' He forced a smile. 'It's a children's story, yes, but   
those are often the best kinds of books to start with when you're learning a foreign   
language.' 

He held the book out to Carpenter, who took it from his hands and turned it over. 

'_Le Petit Prince_?' A pleased sort of realisation slowly dawned on his face. 'Oh, is this   
_The Little Prince_? Neat - my mum used to read that to me when I was little. In English,   
though.' 

Will regarded him for a long moment, and then said: 

'Take it with you.' 

Carpenter had been flipping through the pages with a nostalgic, almost loving fondness,   
but at Will's words his head snapped up. 'Oh, no...I couldn't take this.' He held out the   
book, trying to give it back to Will. 'Look at it - it's so old! It's practically an antique!   
I couldn't take it, Professor.' 

Will huffed inwardly. Practically an antique, indeed - that book had been almost new   
when he'd received it. 'You'll have more need of it than I will, this summer. Besides,   
it'll give you something to read when things get boring.' 

'If you're sure....' At Will's nod, the young man gazed down at the book, then clutched it   
to his chest as if he was afraid that Will would change his mind. 'Thank you, professor.' 

You're welcome, Mr Carpenter. Have a good time - and do see that you learn something.  
Will allowed himself a quiet smile, which Carpenter returned. 

Have a good holiday, the young man said, and then he was gone. The door shut behind  
him with a loud, final _click_. 

Will braced himself on his desk, head down. When the rubbery feeling left his legs, he  
made it to his chair and sat, lost. 

It's fitting, he said tremulously, after ten minutes. It was the only thing he could think   
to say. Stephen had given him the book, after all - a birthday present. Stephen had never   
combined birthday and Christmas again, after Will's eleventh birthday. 

If he'd only known who Carpenter was before - 

If I'd known, said Will acidly, then I'd have treated him differently. And that would   
have been suspicious. He calmed. It would have been suspicious. A pause. It's better   
this way. 

Will sat for a few minutes, letting the words sink in. Softly, he repeated, It's better this   
way, and he finally believed it. 

There wasn't time to think like a regular person any more. He knew he could let go of the   
thought of what might have been - mostly because he knew he didn't have time to savour it. 

All the same -

A few brief words flickered through his mind - '_without my dreams, I should have gone   
mad long ago_' - who had said that? 

He did not have time to lose himself in dreams. 

Perhaps once I'm off with the sheep, Will said to himself, and organised his briefcase.   
He would enter his office again once or twice before he left for the last time, and then he  
would go through and decide what he could take without it looking suspicious. 

Will cast a half-appraising eye around his office, turned out the light, and left. 

* * *

A few necessary stops and final purchases were made - a new suitcase, hiking boots, a   
stout staff. When James Leonard asked him what his plans were for the summer, he made   
sure that there were several people around when he answered. I've got a conference one   
weekend, and I'm lecturing in Milan the next - thought I'd do a bit of hiking in the Alps in   
between. 

Leonard said mildly, topping off his cup of coffee, Are you going to have someone with   
you? 

Oh, I don't think so, Will said, cultivating a suitably dry tone. More of a 'destiny   
traveller' sort of thing. Ambling around, communing with nature. Being at one with my   
surroundings. 

Leonard laughed, and then said, I'd consider finding someone to go with you, though, just  
in case you run into some trouble up there. 

Will shook his head. It'll be fine. I've done lots of distance hiking. And you've got to tell   
people where you're going - there are several lodges around to spend the night, and you   
leave your name and destination with the first one, and then they check up on you the rest   
of the way. 

Certainly sounds like you know what you're doing, Leonard said cheerfully, and took   
a sip of coffee. Good lord! What do they _put_ in this stuff? Petrol? 

Will said nothing. 

All told, he was quite satisfied with the way everything was shaping up. He had written a   
very sharp letter to his bank - and left the drafts lying round his rooms, naturally - making   
up some reason for withdrawing his money. He'd keep it on him until he reached Berne, at   
which point he'd open an account with Union Bank of Switzerland. Then it would be on to  
the conference, which he thoroughly intended to enjoy, and then

The wild world awaits, he said softly to himself two nights before his departure, sitting in  
front of the fire. 

One of the smaller logs broke, letting out a soft hiss. 

'It'll be a nice change,' he added lightly, picking up his teacup. 'No credit cards. No   
telephone messages. No worrying about where the grant money is coming from, or what   
to say on a recommendation letter. None of that for a good long while.' He sipped at the   
tea, setting the cup back on the saucer. 'I am going to miss this place, though.' 

The fire was silent, slowly licking its way around an untouched bit of wood. 

Will placed his cup and saucer down on the table at his side, and turned to pick up the   
carved wooden box that held his few treasures. He opened it, reverently, and began to   
lift out the objects inside it and set them in his lap. 

First, Stephen's letters, all in their original envelopes, bound neatly with a thin white   
ribbon. The edges had yellowed slightly and the lettering had begun to fade, but they were   
still as legible as when the postman had delivered them. There were other letters as well,   
from other family members - one or two from his uncle Bill, a few from his parents, the   
odd letter from his brothers and sisters. There were several sealed envelopes that held   
important papers, birth certificates and Will's diplomas, any official document with a   
possibly incriminating date on it. Another worn envelope held a number of family photos,   
names and dates printed on the back in his mother's careful handwriting. Gingerly, he   
picked up a delicate gold locket, and swallowed the lump that rose in his throat when he  
opened it and saw his mother and father smiling bright, youthful smiles up at him. 

'They look so happy,' he murmured, running his fingertips over the scrollwork engraving   
on the back of the locket. 'They always looked happy, but this....' He fell silent, not  
knowing what else to say. 

After a long moment, there was a rough crackle from the fire, and Will took that as a   
sign that it was time to close the locket and return it to the box. 

Not all of his treasures were letters or photographs. There was the hunting horn from   
Greythorne Manor, of course, though he didn't keep that in the box with the other treasures.   
(Keeping a thing of the Old Ones in the same box as family snapshots and Stephen's letters   
felt vaguely _wrong_ in a way that he couldn't quite define.) There was the perfectly flat   
black rock that he had found on a school outing to the seaside, a skipping stone that was far  
too good to skip. There was a small velvety bag half-filled with seashells. There was a   
slightly dulled silver sixpence, long out of circulation, and two shillings and a half-crown   
that had been minted in the year he was born. There was the cork from the first bottle of   
wine he had bought, and a champagne cork from a long-past New Year's Eve celebration.  
And then came the best treasure of all. 

The gold had not darkened with the passage of time. It caught the firelight and sparkled as  
Will held it up, turning it this way and that. A salt cellar, not very big, cast in the shape of a  
sturdy-looking castle. 

When his father had died and Max had come into the jewellery shop, Will had followed   
his older brother to the shop one day and offered to buy it. Max had given him an odd look,   
then unlocked the glass-fronted cabinet and removed the salt-cellar - and handed it to Will. 

'He told me I was daft, asking to buy it off of him,' Will said to the fire. 'He said that if   
I'd asked Dad for it, Dad would have given it to me without a second thought.' 

The fire popped once, then twice, and curled round the edges of the larger log. 

Will carefully replaced all the things in the box and closed it. Placing his hand flat on the  
lid, he whispered the words of a protection spell, sealing the box's contents away from the  
world. 

'There,' he said when the last whispering echoes of magic had faded. He would have to  
undo the magic before the box could be opened again. 

It was nearly done. In less than a few weeks' time, he would turn out the lights, close   
and lock the door, and walk away from his old life. It would be safe in the box that would   
always be with him, something to be turned over and looked at, something to be cherished  
for always. 

As he stood, still holding the box, his eye fell on the Scrapbook. Like the pariah it was,   
it sat a ways apart from the other books and papers on his desk. 

Will looked at the Scrapbook, and then put down his life-box and moved to his desk. This  
was one way, perhaps, in which Merriman could offer him guidance without knowing it.   
Merriman had made the same mistake over and over throughout the ages - growing too   
close to mortals. He was an Old One. They were Old Ones. They were fundamentally   
different from mortals; for them, it was the job to be done, without recognition or thanks. 

Looking at the Scrapbook now, Will could see very clearly in his mind's eye Merriman   
standing before him, looking cross. Of course Merriman would be cross. To keep reminders  
of those mortals he had known, reminders of history, was not a thing that any Old One   
should do. He was a tool. He was not supposed to have feelings, or sensibilities to be   
mollified, or any of the other things which constituted the core of humanity. It hurt to   
open the book and look at its contents, running his fingers over each and every clipping   
as though his actions could somehow bring it all back to life. It was an indulgence. It was   
a weakness. 

More than that, thought Will, it's evidence. Something else that would have to be dealt   
with. He couldn't leave it here - it would raise questions. He would have to take it with   
him. 

The same little voice which had shown him his opportunity spoke up again, saying,   
_No. No, you don't._

The Scrapbook would be equally inexplicable wherever he was going, should someone run  
across it and decide to have a look. He could protect it in much the same way as the box,   
but what would be the point? The box was more than history. The Scrapbook was a mere   
tying-up of loose ends. 

_Except for one_, whispered the voice. In the grate behind him, a log snapped in two. 

It was a silly, childish hope - like that of a scared child who hopes that by covering his eyes,  
what he cannot see will not see him - but some silly, childish part of Will had to believe in   
it. For all his power and knowledge and plain common sense, there was a part of him that  
would not let go of the belief that Bran was out there somewhere, unchanged by all the years.

As long as he did not have the scrap of newsprint that was the physical evidence of Bran's   
death, Bran Davies would never be dead. 

_A pretty piece of self-deception, Old One._ He could hear Merriman's voice as clearly as if  
the man were standing next to him.

So what?' He gripped the book tightly, protectively. That's the worst part about all the   
funerals, looking down into the open casket and you'll never be able to remember that   
person the same way ever again, there'll always be that _image_, that cold, dead image, and   
it'll go back and colour every memory you ever had of them in life. You look at them one   
last time and you don't even stop to think that that last time will _be_ the last time, the last   
memory you'll ever have of them - the memory of death.'

He tipped his head back, as if staring up at the blankness of the ceiling could keep the   
burning in his eyes from spilling over. I don't want him to live forever...but does he have   
to die in my memory, too?' 

The fire was silent. 

The little voice in his mind was silent. 

Most mercifully, _Merriman's_ voice in his mind was silent. 

Slowly, Will let out a long breath. He relaxed his grip on the Scrapbook, and ruefully ran   
his thumb along the edges where his gripping fingers had made indentations in the rather   
flimsy cover. 

He couldn't keep it, any more than the Ancient Mariner could have kept the body of the   
albatross once it had been cut from around his neck. But he couldn't simply throw it out,   
either, and unbodying it with his magic would have had that same indefinable feeling of   
_wrong_ - somewhere to the left of inappropriate', approaching sacrilegious'. 

His gaze travelled over the top of the blank cover of the book, and lighted on the fire. 

The flames gave an expectant crackle, like an audible question mark. 

Will you?' he asked in the Old Speech. A small matter of formality, but a necessary one. 

The fire leapt in a riot of dancing oranges and bright golds, long tongues of flame reaching  
high like a child's uplifted, welcoming arms. 

Will walked forward until his toes touched the raised brick of the hearth. He ran a hand   
over the worn cover, a final lingering brush of fingertips, and then he let the Scrapbook   
slide through his fingers and into the grate. 

The flames caught the book as it fell, wrapping around it when it landed atop the coals. The  
edges blackened quickly, and within seconds the old, dry newspaper clippings within were   
alight. Will watched, silently, as the fire consumed the last remnants of his old life. By the   
time the flames had died down and returned to normal, there was nothing left of the book   
except a good handful of feathery ashes blanketing the coals and a faint odour of burnt   
paper. 

Rather anti-climactic,' Will said, after a moment. 

The fire let out a sharp hiss and a spray of sparks. 

He took his eyes from the fire and looked at the room, blinking. The flames had left their  
tangled imprint on his vision, and he had to clear it before he could look back. 

He took in the sights: the bookshelves, the desk, his chair with the blanket thrown over the  
arm, the table with the cup and saucer resting on it, the window looking out on his world.   
He saw it all, and he nodded his head in acknowledgement. 

Then he turned back to the fire, knelt, and stared into orange and gold. 

Thank you, Will said. 

The fire let out a soft crackle, and the flames bowed to him as they had done once, long ago. 

Will allowed himself the very ghost of a loving smile, and then whispered, _Go out, fire."_

The room was dark. 

He rose unsteadily. The day's light was waning, and he could just barely make out the   
delicate curves of cup and saucer on his table. 

Will picked them up and went into the kitchen.

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Back to Part II  
Forward to Epilogue


	4. Epilogue

Redeemed From Time   
By: Gramarye and Sweeney Agonistes 

Epilogue 

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_Farewell tonight to all joy and all delight.  
Go well and go peacefully.  
We can't keep your majesty; be on your way.  
Make ready for the last King of May.   
Make a cardboard crown for him.  
Make your voices one.  
Praise a crazy mother's son who loved his life._

- Natalie Merchant 

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'...the tragic and untimely death of Will Stanton has left a gap in the academic community  
that will be very difficult to fill.'

The week-old newspaper rustled dryly, and the young man who had been reading it  
muttered under his breath, 'However, his rooms are available to let, and applicants  
interested in his post as Reader in Mediaeval History should send a c.v. to the University  
at their earliest possible convenience.'

One or two of the other men at the breakfast table gave him strange looks, but said nothing.  
It was too early in the morning for talking, and with a day's work in the blistering heat  
ahead of them it was better to save their energy. In any case, it wasn't their place to say  
anything - the new man may have had his odd habits and a tendency to mutter to himself  
when he was reading the paper in the morning, but he worked hard and didn't say much  
otherwise. Polite, too. Manners like a real gentleman - whatever that meant.

The men finished their cups of coffee and trampled out the kitchen door. There were sheep  
to be seen to, fences to check and mend, feed to buy. This wasn't a ranch for the tourists,   
and it wasn't a petting zoo for the kiddies. It was a working ranch on the ragged edges of  
the outback, isolated and nearly uninhabitable during the worst months. The vet was forty  
minutes' drive away, the nearest town a half-hour by Land Rover over uncertain roads. The  
land was tough, the men were tough - even the sheep were tough.

Will absolutely loved it.

It was such a change from Oxford. No tutorials, no squabbles over funding, no just trying  
to get through the day, only to fall into bed exhausted and unable to think about anything  
other than what one was researching at the moment.

Perhaps that last wasn't entirely inaccurate, he thought as he went out the door, pausing to   
stare at the red landscape. The first few weeks had been hard, of course, and he had fallen   
into bed, exhausted, unable to think in general. Which was probably for the best.

It had been an interesting journey. He had given himself two days in each city en route to   
Perth - flying British Airways, naturally - and Frankfurt had been interesting, as had   
Singapore. 

The merlions of Singapore had only left him feeling slightly hollow. 

said Will, although it was really more of a grunt, as he was throwing his weight   
against a sheep which absolutely refused to move. It wasn't that bad. He straightened,   
and looked out, shading his eyes. Where are those damned dogs? 

Exasperated, he stood looking down at the sheep, arms akimbo. The sheep looked back at   
him, not giving an inch. 

Fine, then, said Will, and hunkered, wiping his face with a handkerchief. Fall (he still   
thought of it that way) was just edging into winter, but the temperature in the outback never   
needed much encouragement to skyrocket. He had lost weight since coming to Australia,   
he knew; working in the upside-down heat had to have been a large part of it. 

It helped not to think about the merlions. Reminders of another life. This life was   
satisfactory - hard work cured a lot of things. Not, of course, that sheep weren't a reminder   
- but Australian sheep were worlds different from Welsh sheep. It was fitting, as the   
Northern Territories were a world away from Tywyn and Clwyd. The only similarity   
between the two places was the sheep. 

And even you, said Will to his sheep, are much more difficult to deal with than I recall   
Welsh sheep being. He stood again, half-heartedly stuffing his handkerchief in his back   
pocket. Come on, then. I don't have all day to waste chasing sheep who ought to know   
better. 

The sheep stared at him belligerently. 

What had the men of Clwyd Farm done? Will tried to recall. He gave a high-pitched   
whistle, and a dark streak came racing across the earth. With a smile back at the sheep, he   
said softly, Please don't make this difficult. 

If sheep could scowl, this one was doing it. Will watched the sheepdog skid to a stop at his   
feet, waiting for instruction. He nodded to the sheep, and the dog was off, doing its job,   
herding it back towards the ranch house. 

Will followed, trekking across the hard-packed earth, two lines from something he had   
known once running through his head. He sang it softly to himself: 

Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well;   
The way will guide one back. 

He paused then, and turned, and looked out to the horizon, looking for something. 

All he saw was red, red earth. All there was to see. 

Will half-smiled. Then he turned and went towards the ranch house. 

Dinner, or the evening meal, or whatever one called the mutton-and-beans-and-other-food-  
like-things served on a faded plate, was silent as usual. Then came evening chores, an  
evening mug of tea, and bed. 

That night, for the first time in months, Will could not fall asleep easily. 

Back in his rooms at the University, he would have lain awake for a while before getting up   
and finding something to read. There was always something that had to or ought to be   
read, articles and new publications and conference proceedings and always, always, the   
never-ending stream of student essays and papers. 

But there was nothing like that here, on the farm. There was the morning newspaper, and   
he'd read that already. Other than that, there wasn't much in the way of reading material at   
hand. The other workers were...not of a literary bent, to say the least. 

With a slight sigh, Will slipped out of bed and pulled on some clothes and his work boots.   
Within a few minutes, he was outside and walking, following the paths he normally walked   
during the day. The moon was high, a blank white half-disc edging toward full, and a few   
clouds scudded across the star-filled sky. There was plenty of light to see by. 

He paused, and looked up. All the constellations were different. Not alien, of course-he   
knew them well enough, having flown amongst them in his time, greeted them formally as   
part of his first learnings. Crux was a welcome sight, the four bright stars of the Southern   
Cross as much the solitary traveller's guide as Polaris was to the men of the British Isles.   
Carina was there as well, another reminder of long travel in the form of a sailing ship's keel. 

The stars were at their full brilliance without light pollution to hide their sparkle. Somehow,   
though, the brightness of moon and stars made the night sky look that much emptier, in   
Will's eyes. 

He could stay here for a while. He would stay long enough to get some more colour into   
his face, to roughen his scholar's hands, to take the sharp edge off of his cultivated   
Oxbridge-sounding accent. To get his head on straight, essentially. And after that.... 

It was his turn to drive into the town at the week's end to pick up food and other supplies   
and to pay the vet's bill-which was higher than normal this month, with three yearling   
lambs sick on top of an older ewe's seemingly chronic mastitis. He'd seen a small   
dusty-looking bookstore on the town's high street, and if he was going to have any more   
sleepless nights like this one he'd need a book for company. Something light, like a   
popular novel or a cheap adventure story. And when he'd finished that book, perhaps   
he'd pick up something different. 

A book on sailing, maybe. 

Or an old medical manual. 

Or a used archaeology textbook, one so old that it might be a relic in and of itself. 

Because really, when it came down to it, he had quite a lot of time on his hands. 

World enough, and Time. 

He glanced up at the stars once more, a quick check of direction and location that was   
more reflex than anything else, and then he turned on his heel and began the walk back to   
the ranch house. This time, when the old song wound its way back into his head, he let his   
voice ring across the open plains and let his feet fall into step with the music: 

'Still hangs the hedge without a gust,   
Still, still the shadows stay:   
My feet upon the moonlit dust   
Pursue the ceaseless way.' 

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Gramarye and Sweeney Agonistes  
_18 March 2004_


End file.
